


Silent Treatment

by DolenFeredir



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 12:17:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2150430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DolenFeredir/pseuds/DolenFeredir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is bothering Athos.  Aramis is perplexed.  (Pre-series)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Treatment

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Бойкот](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5769253) by [aqwt101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqwt101/pseuds/aqwt101)



> Set pre-series (sorry . . . no d'Artagnan in this one!)

Day One:

“How long has he been here?”

“Almost two hours.”

Aramis tried to peek over Porthos’s shoulder without looking like he was paying too much attention to the figure in the corner. He needn’t have worried; the object of his scrutiny was apparently far too involved in his attempt at achieving wine-fuelled unconsciousness to notice the Musketeer watching him.

Aramis raised an eyebrow and looked at Porthos. “He’s been drinking like that for two hours?”

The larger man shook his head. “He started off slowly and only really picked up the pace about half an hour ago. Hasn’t said a word.”

Ignoring the pretext of subtlety, the two men both turned to gaze openly at their friend.

Athos sat in the corner of the darkened tavern, clearly well on his way to the drunken haze he was pursuing. His expression was unreadable, as usual, and he kept his eyes locked on the bottle of wine in front of him, as though afraid it would desert him.

“At least it’s not the locket,” Porthos pointed out. “That’s something.”

Aramis had to agree. Typically, when Athos got into his cups, it ended with the man staring with a tormented fixation at the locket he wore around his neck before passing out at the table. Both Aramis and Porthos had carried their friend home more than once after such a night.

“How did his mission go?” Aramis asked, still appraising his brooding friend. “Did something untoward happen? Was he injured?”

Again, Porthos shook his head. “Everything looked normal when he came in. He handed his horse over to the stable boy and then came out here.”

“He never reported to the captain?”

Porthos took a sip of wine. “Treville is still at the palace. He left a message for Athos to report when he got a chance. It was only a delivery mission, after all.”

The pair fell into silence as they watched Athos drink.

“I do hate it when he sits alone like that,” Aramis mused. “Did you try to sit with him?”

Porthos chuckled. “I got the glare, so I came over here to wait for you.”

Aramis sighed. “Well, it isn’t as though he’s simply going to tell us what’s bothering him. As usual, we’ll just have to watch him and wait it out until he’s in a more harmonious frame of mind. Is it your turn or mine?”

“Mine,” Porthos admitted with a grimace.

“Excellent,” Aramis replied with a grin. He reached over and grabbed Porthos’s glass, draining the remaining wine in one gulp. “Do be careful with him this time. I’d hate to see him with another injury from you hitting his head on a doorframe.”

Porthos frowned in mock anger as he snatched his glass back. “It wasn’t my fault he started flailing. If he doesn’t want to get injured, he shouldn’t drink himself unconscious.” He smiled faintly.

Aramis grinned in reply, grabbing his hat and settling it on his head. “I’m off, my friend. The night is young . . . for some of us.” He slapped Porthos on the shoulder and headed to the door.

He nodded a greeting at Athos, who returned it blearily. Aramis didn’t take it personally. Athos was moody at the best of times.

He whistled as he left the tavern. The lovely Marguerite was all alone while her husband was away on business and Aramis would hardly be a gentleman if he allowed her to remain lonely . . .

 

***

Day Two:

Aramis tugged his hat lower over his eyes as he entered the garrison. Thankfully, at this hour, the courtyard was nearly deserted and he could avoid undue scrutiny.

A sudden movement by the stables startled him and he turned to find none other than Athos peering out from the shadows.

“Ah, good morning,” Aramis said, keeping his voice deceptively light. “I must say, you’re the last person I expected to see here so early.” Inwardly, he cursed. Athos was by far the last person he had _wanted_ to see so early. Why couldn’t the other man be sleeping off his drink like a normal person? All Aramis wanted was to leave a note for the captain that he had taken patrol duty and to ride out for a day or two. Just enough time for the bruises to fade or for him to invent a story about a tavern brawl . . .

With Athos here, however, the chances of a quiet getaway were obliterated. The man was like a dog with a bone and there was no way he would let the matter drop. Aramis’s risk-filled dalliances had earned him more than his share of exasperated looks from Athos, who was convinced that Aramis’s luck would eventually run out. This time, it nearly had and proving Athos right in that regard was not something to which Aramis aspired.

Athos frowned and Aramis shook his head slightly. The other man had already figured out that there was something wrong. Aramis cursed under his breath, his smile faltering. The man could drink himself to oblivion every night and still manage to be more perceptive than most.

Athos stepped out of the shadows, crossing the distance between them with a quick pace that shouldn’t have been possible considering the amount of alcohol he’d imbibed the night before.

Stepping back slightly, Aramis closed his eyes with a sigh as Athos reached for his hat and pulled it off in one swift motion.

Aramis cracked one eye open, trying to gauge the other man’s reaction.

Athos looked shocked, though Aramis could hardly blame him. He’d been shocked himself when he’d first seen his face in the light.

“It’s nothing,” Aramis said quickly, grabbing his hat from Athos’s suddenly lax grip. “I was foolish. Marguerite’s husband came home early . . . and his brother was with him.”

He forced a smile to his face. “I can hardly blame them for taking exception to finding me in a . . . _compromising_ situation with Marguerite.”

Athos looked angry now, opening his mouth as though searching for something to say before closing it again.

“I apologized for the transgression and swore never to call on the lady again,” Aramis offered. “Really, I thought the man was quite reasonable under the circumstances.”

Indeed, Aramis had been lucky to escape with only bruises, particularly since the cuckolded husband was well within his rights to demand satisfaction. The Musketeer had left as soon as he had been dressed enough to brave the streets. He had not responded to the brothers’ anger with any violence of his own and that, along with his apology and promise never to return, left Aramis hope that the unfortunate events were behind him.

Athos stared at Aramis a moment longer, his gaze smouldering in anger.

“It’s over,” Aramis stated firmly. “I’m certain he won’t pursue the matter. _I_ have no desire to pursue the matter.”

With a brief nod, Athos turned and walked away, fists clenched tightly at his sides.

“Is that it?” Aramis called after him in surprise. “No comments about my foolish antics? No offers of vengeance against the man who injured me? No mocking me for getting caught?”

Athos didn't look back as he stepped through the gates and disappeared into the streets beyond.

Aramis blinked. “What on earth was all that about?”

 

***

Day Three:

By the next day, Aramis had abandoned his attempts to hide the bruises. Athos had already seen them and it didn’t take Porthos long to realize something was amiss, either.

Aramis was not worried about his appearance at the moment. The trio had been sent on a routine patrol and were resting their horses before starting back. With no time constraints and no other people nearby, the men were free to simply enjoy the peace of the summer's day.

At least, some of them were enjoying it. Aramis and Porthos sat together, but Athos had once again distanced himself and was, to all appearances, napping in the shade of a large tree.

Athos had been avoiding Aramis since the previous day, something that hurt more than Aramis had imagined possible. It hardly seemed an appropriate response.

At least Porthos’s reaction had been more akin to what Aramis had expected from Athos. The large man had been furious and spent several long hours contemplating ways of achieving increasingly creative vengeance.

Aramis laughed as Porthos’s latest plan crossed every line of absurdity. Stealing peacocks from the palace gardens was far too impractical to be useful in revenge.

Inwardly, however, his mind was still occupied with Athos and his lack of response to an injured friend. Certainly, the other man had looked furious, but to go without so much as a word of comfort or commiseration . . .

_Unless_ . . .

Maybe Athos wasn’t angry at his treatment. Maybe Athos was angry with _him_.

Aramis pondered the circumstances again, this time looking at them in a new light. Athos must have been angry that he’d once again engaged in a dalliance with a married woman! The other man had expressed concern more than once about the potential dangers of such pastimes. Aramis had always taken his words for mild teasing, but perhaps Athos had been serious in his warnings . . .

What if Athos felt that Aramis was a lost cause or even that he had deserved the beating?

Had Athos been angry, or merely _disappointed_?

The realization hit Aramis like a punch in the stomach.

They’d been friends for years and he’d never before been so completely ignored by Athos. While he’d never actively sought Athos’s approval, the realization that he did not have his support, something he had never before doubted, stung bitterly.

Aramis glanced over to where Athos reclined under the tree.

“He’s angry at me!” Aramis muttered in shock, cutting Porthos off in the middle of his latest plan at revenge.

“Who is?” Porthos asked with a look of confusion. “The husband? Of course he is!”

“Not him!” Aramis growled. “Him!” Aramis nodded his head toward Athos, who had tipped his hat over his eyes and was, to all appearances, completely unaware he was the object of Aramis's scrutiny.

Porthos raised an eyebrow. “He doesn’t look angry.”

“Well, he is!” Aramis insisted, a sick feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. He knew it shouldn’t bother him, but it did. He’d always been secure in the knowledge that he had the full support of his friends. Athos’s reaction made him feel . . . _ashamed._

Enough was enough.

“I have nothing to apologize for,” Aramis said firmly, rising to his feet.

“Are you sure you want to -”

Aramis didn’t listen to Porthos as he crossed to the other tree and cleared his throat.

It took a moment, apparently Athos truly _had_ been asleep, but the other man stirred and lifted his hat, blinking at Aramis in confusion.

“I have nothing to apologize for,” Aramis announced, standing tall as Athos squinted up at him. “My actions and their consequences are my own to deal with. I hope we can move past this, and I have no desire to speak of it again. Ever. Is that amenable to you?”

Athos glanced over to Porthos, who shrugged, before looking back to Aramis and nodding warily.

“Excellent,” Aramis smiled and reached his hand down to help a bewildered-looking Athos to his feet. “We’d best be off then!”

He turned to walk back to his horse, only slightly unsettled by the thought that Athos hadn’t appeared to have a clue as to what the conversation had been about.

 

***

Day Four:

“Enough of this!” Aramis pulled the wine glass from Athos’s grasp, setting on the far side of the table and well out of reach. “You’re done for tonight.”

The expression on Athos’s face had Aramis questioning the wisdom of his actions, but he held his ground.

“You’re done,” he reiterated firmly.

With a final glare, Athos grabbed his hat and staggered to his feet, pushing past Aramis on his way out of the tavern.

Aramis stood for a moment in disbelief. “Oh, for the love of-”

He turned and followed his friend.

It wasn’t difficult to catch up to Athos. The other man was moving slowly.

Aramis reached out and grasped Athos’s arm. “I meant it, Athos. Enough is enough. I don’t like to push you, but you have to talk to someone before you kill yourself.” He tugged insistently, pulling Athos down the street. Aramis’s lodgings were closest and would provide a good location for a long-overdue conversation.

Athos pulled back, trying to free his arm with a growing look of alarm settling over his features.

Aramis tightened his grip, readying himself for the possibility of a violent response.

To his surprise, Athos sighed deeply, the fight seemingly draining out of him with the exhalation of his breath.

He allowed himself to be led through the streets until they came to Aramis’s lodgings and Aramis found himself growing concerned at the sudden complacency of his friend.

He manhandled Athos through the door, depositing him in a rickety wooden chair before turning to look at him.

Athos looked awful.

The expression of utter resignation looked completely out of place on Athos’s face and Aramis found himself frowning. Taking pity on the other man, he quickly poured a small glass of wine and set it on the narrow table in front of him.

“You aren’t leaving here until you tell me what’s wrong,” Aramis announced firmly. “If you’re still angry about the incident with Marguerite and her husband . . .”

Athos shook his head slightly, reaching for the glass. He turned it slowly in his grip, watching the dark liquid within, but made no move to drink it.

Aramis ran his hand over his face and sat heavily in the other chair. “What then? Why are you avoiding me? Why won’t you just tell me what the problem is?”

He watched as Athos seemed to muster up his courage, sighing deeply before finally pointing to his throat.

Aramis’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand.”

Athos tapped his throat with his fingers and winced slightly, an uncomfortable wariness settling over his face.

Realization dawned over Aramis. “You can’t speak?” he asked incredulously.

Athos shook his head.

Aramis felt his mouth drop open. “All this time? You just couldn’t _speak_?”

A sheepish shrug was his only response.

“Athos, I thought you were _angry_ with me!” Aramis got to his feet and turned to the large trunk at the foot of his bed. “Of all the stubborn, _irresponsible_ . . .” he pulled out several bottles of thick liquid, each one bringing greater trepidation into Athos’s eyes.

“You know that you could simply have come to me and I would have _helped_ you?”

Athos shook his head almost frantically. He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.

Aramis tilted his head, a hint of a smile crossing his features. “I’m sorry. I can’t understand you. Perhaps after you’ve had some medicine, you’ll be able to tell me what you mean.”

Athos glanced at the door as though weighing his chances of making an escape.

Aramis followed his gaze knowingly. “You’re more than welcome to try,” he offered. “Just know that I haven’t been drinking all night, nor have I been sick for the better part of a week.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than a sharp knock sounded from the door. Porthos didn’t wait for a response before opening the door and poking his head in.

“I heard you took away his wine. Are you still alive?”

Athos leaned over, letting his head thump against the tabletop and covering it with his hands. It was as close to a sound of frustration as he could get.

“Did you know that the reason he hasn’t spoken to anyone in days is _because he can’t_?” Aramis directed his words at Porthos, but never took his eyes off the man currently trying to disappear into the table. “He lost his voice and thought the best course of action was to carry on like nothing was wrong!”

“Huh,” Porthos replied, taking off his hat and moving to sit at the small table. “That’s funny.”

Athos raised his head at that, an inquisitive look on his face.

“It’s funny that it took us _four days_ to realize that he wasn’t just being himself.” The large Musketeer laughed as Athos glared at him.

“For those four days, he didn’t even let on he was sick,” Aramis complained, pouring the contents of one bottle into a glass and stirring it forcefully. “He just chose to suffer in silence!”

“Well, without a voice, the only way he _can_ suffer is in silence, isn’t it?” Porthos laughed again, clearly enjoying Athos’s discomfort at Aramis’s words.

Despite his frustration, Aramis let a small grin cross his face. He finished mixing the contents of the bottles together and poured it into another glass. “Don’t worry, Athos,” he said with ominous cheer. “I’ll have you fixed up in no time!”

He set the glass down in front of the silent Musketeer and crossed his arms.

Athos sat up, his nose wrinkling as he caught a whiff of the pungent mixture. He grimaced and looked up at Aramis pleadingly.

Aramis kept his expression serious, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “The longer you wait, the worse it will taste.”

Athos frowned at the cup before glancing longingly at the door. With Porthos’s arrival, the chances of escape were next to none and Aramis could tell the exact moment when Athos realized he was trapped.

The Musketeer reached slowly for the cup, grasping it lightly as though it were filled with a terrible poison.

Porthos chuckled softly.

Athos squeezed his eyes shut and visibly held his breath as he raised the cup to his lips and hesitated.

“Honestly!” Aramis laughed, taking pity on his friend and grabbing the glass from Athos’s hand. “You are such a child sometimes!”

Athos’s eyes flew open as the other man took the medicine away.

Aramis added the contents of a few more bottles to the drink before handing it back to Athos, who sniffed it cautiously.

“I’ve sweetened it somewhat,” Aramis explained. “It isn't a fine wine, but it won’t be as horrible as you fear. That said, if you ever do this again, I _will_ make you drink the original blend. It can take several days to recover, so you can imagine how miserable I can make you.”

Athos’s eyes widened at the threat and he nodded slowly.

“Bottoms up,” Porthos added helpfully.

With no further hesitation, Athos tipped the glass back, swallowing the contents with a look of disgust.

“Much better!” Aramis praised, taking the glass back.

Athos glared, but the heat was gone from the expression. He reached for the wine glass Aramis had provided earlier, only to find it snatched from his grasp.

“Give the medicine time to work first,” Aramis chided lightly.

Porthos watched the other men with a grin on his face. “You’re like a mother hen clucking over a chick,” he laughed, taking the wine glass from Aramis and downing it swiftly.

Aramis raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue the point as one corner of his mouth turned up in an easy grin. Athos, however, scowled darkly, making Porthos laugh even harder. “Make that a _grumpy_ chick!”

Athos swirled into motion, his dagger embedded in the table in front of the larger man before Porthos fully registered the movement.

The smile didn’t quite fade from Porthos’s face as he looked up to see Athos regarding him with a dangerous smirk of his own.

“Make that a grumpy chick with sharp blades,” Porthos conceded good-naturedly.

Athos inclined his head in response, pulling the dagger free and retaking his seat.

“Well,” Aramis began, “I suppose we should think about letting Captain Treville know that you’ll be unavailable for the next few days.”

Athos shook his head, but Aramis was already holding up his head to forestall any arguments. “If you’re guarding the king and an assassin shows up, how do you expect to warn anyone?”

Athos frowned.

“Of course, if the idea of resting is too distasteful for you, I’m certain you can assist Philippe in the stables,” Aramis continued. “Mucking stalls doesn’t require a voice, after all.”

“I heard the Captain mentioning that the latrines need cleaning,” Porthos observed. “You could always do that.”

Aramis nodded. “Serge was complaining about washing dishes the other day.”

“There’s a pile of linens needing washing, too. The Captain’ll save some money if you do it instead of the washer women.”

Athos looked decidedly unenthused at the list of potential duties being presented.

“We can point those options out to Treville as alternatives, _or_ you could go back to your rooms, _rest_ , and return when you are able to speak,” Aramis offered. “Truly, it’s up to you, my friend.”

With a deep sigh, Athos retrieved his hat, rose and headed for the door.

“Probably the wise choice,” Porthos agreed.

“I’ll stop by in the morning with another draught,” Aramis called after him.

Athos raised his hand in acknowledgement before leaving, presumably to head back to his own rooms as suggested.

Aramis sighed deeply before sitting in the newly-vacated seat. “Four days,” he muttered, pouring himself a glass of wine and offering the bottle to Porthos, who refused. “Whatever are we going to do about that man?”

“Well,” Porthos mused, “since I’m not the medic, I don’t have to do anything.” He grinned and rose, clapping Aramis on the shoulder firmly. “You, however, are going to be spending the next few days looking for Athos. Now that his secret’s out, you can bet he’s not going to show his face until he’s better.”

“You think so?” Aramis grimaced as Porthos smiled in answer. “Perhaps I should have made him stay here?”

“Too late now,” Porthos pointed out. “You’ll never find him. He hates people fussing over him and your medicines taste _awful_.”

“I sweetened it,” Aramis protested.

Porthos shook his head. “It never really helps the taste. Still goes down like _medicine_.”

“You’re just as bad as he is!” Aramis rolled his eyes.

“Have you ever tasted it?” Porthos countered, heading for the door.

“I don’t get sick.”

“You should try it sometime. The medicine, I mean, not getting sick.”

Aramis shook his head. “It shouldn’t matter what it tastes like, as long as it _works_.”

“Oh, it works,” Porthos laughed. “One dose and you get better just so you don’t have to drink another!” The large man was still laughing as he left Aramis’s rooms.

The lone Musketeer shook his head as he cleared away the glasses from the small table. He eyed the glass in which he had mixed Athos’s medicine. Holding it up to his face, he sniffed the small amount of liquid remaining at the bottom.

Well, of course it didn’t smell like a rare vintage, but surely it wasn’t as terrible as the other men believed?

They were just being ridiculous. Grown men fearing to take their medicine . . .

Aramis tipped the glass up, catching the last dregs of the concoction on his tongue.

That wasn’t so bad . . .

Until it _was._

Aramis sputtered against the sudden pungent taste in his mouth. Spitting into the glass, he grimaced and grabbed for his wine to wash away the flavour. The wine didn’t help, merely masking the overpowering earthy essence for a moment. Blinking against the sudden tears that welled in his eyes, Aramis regarded the glass with a look of mild shock.

The medicine was truly _awful_.

On the positive side, it was unquestionably effective. Already, Aramis felt as though he were breathing easier and he wasn’t even sick.

Of course, he would _never_ admit to his fellow Musketeers that they had been right. Perhaps he could simply tweak the concoction without ever letting them know?

Settling in for an evening of experimentation, Aramis allowed himself a small grin. He would find the right mixture and then he would go hunting for a sick Musketeer on whom to test it.

After all, how many places could Athos hide?

 

End


End file.
